LaVyrle Spencer - Spring Fancy

Whatever Winn had expected him to be wearing, it was not black. Most groomsmen wore baby blue, gray or rich nutmegs these days. Yet she thought she would never again believe black a drab color after seeing it stretched across the muscles and limbs of Joseph Duggan. It set off the froth of snowy ruffles at his chest in an utterly masculine manner. The crisp black bow tie made his sturdy neck look even more manly, and the skintight stretch of black vest was as tempting as a shadowed haunted house, inviting exploration in much the same way as forbidden, yet compelling things are wont to do. Her eyes were drawn to the deep U-curve low upon his midsection, where black abutted white as he again held the left panel of his jacket back, hooked behind his ruffled wrist.

"Did what's-his-name see you dressed like this?" he asked unsmilingly.

Her startled eyes swerved to his. "Paul. His name is Paul. And no, he didn't."

"So I take it he's not here yet." He glanced around, but his gaze returned to her as if there were no help for it.

"No, of course not. But he'll be here for the service." She fidgeted with the handle of her basket, suddenly wondering if the pancake hostess had made it back last night. "Did what's-her-name see you dressed like that?"

"Her name is Lee Ann, and no, she didn't get back yet that I know of. And even if she had, she wouldn't have seen me. We don't live together if that's what you're asking. I live in an old house in Osseo with my two younger brothers."

She felt the heat rising up her chest once again, staining her chin and cheeks. "I wasn't asking that."

"No, I suppose you weren't. But now you know just the same." Was it her imagination, or had his shoulders squared defensively? He had skewered her with a look that demanded she raise her eyes to his, but she took refuge in staring at the basket of hyacinth.

"Are you going to tell me, or not?" he demanded quietly, studying her averted face.

Her eyes flew to his. "Tell you what?"

"If you live with him."

"I don't think it's any of your business." Then why was her heart flailing around like some wounded bird?

"You're absolutely right. But I'm asking, anyway."

She considered lying just to set him in his place, but in the end couldn't. "No, I don't. He lives in the house we'll be living in once we get married, and I live in my own town house on Shingle Creek Parkway."

It hadn't been her imagination: he had straightened his shoulders, for now they relaxed noticeably as he released a pent breath.

"Everybody to the front of the church now, and we'll take the group pictures!" Winnie nearly sighed aloud when the call of the photographer released them from the tension that seemed to dominate both her and Joseph Duggan today.

At the open double doors he touched the holy-water font and crossed himself, just as she did, but he did not offer his elbow. They walked in businesslike fashion up the aisle, just as all the others did, then submitted themselves for juggling, posturing, sucking in and holding breaths, presenting left shoulders to the viewfinder, then right shoulders, then backing off so the bride and groom could be photographed by themselves.

Winnie looked across the way to where the groom's attendants awaited further instruction. Joseph was staring at her as if puzzling something out, and she turned to whisper a trumped-up question in Jeanne's ear just so she wouldn't have to confront his eyes.

The photos at the altar were done, and the photographer herded them back to the women's dressing room where he shot the bride with her mother and father, with the flower girl and quite naturally with her maid of honor. There was the traditional pose of Sandy displaying her ring while Winnie lightly held the bride's palm and admired. But the photographer had asked her to remove her gloves, and she was devastatingly conscious of her own diamond winking up at her reprimandingly. The sequence of shots seemed to go on endlessly, while several of the groomsmen lingered in the doorway, watching. Joseph didn't even bother disguising his obvious fascination with her-he came right in and stood propped against the back wall, watching the session with keen interest.

There followed the old showing-off-of-the-garter shot, then the photographer bellowed, "Who's the best man and maid of honor?" Winnie's eyes sought Joseph's, and he boosted himself away from the wall. "I'd like a shot of the two of you together. Over here, against this simple background." And they found themselves nudged, pulled and manipulated into positions that pleased the photographer's compositional eye. There was one shot of Joseph bending over to sniff her hyacinths. In the middle of the pose he ruined it by sneezing-and everyone in the room burst out laughing, which managed to relieve some of the tension spinning between Joseph and herself. But it returned in full force when the photographer backed her up against Joseph's chest and asked him to place his hands on her waist.

To Winnie's surprise the man behind her not only spanned her hipbones with his hands but pulled her back flush against his trouser front. She had a flashing forbidden thought that she was nestled against him at a very accommodating height-and yes, he was several inches shorter than Paul, and she immediately felt the intimate difference.

The photographer asked her to lift her chin and turn her jaw slightly toward Joseph's. The juxtaposition of their faces brought her into the realm of his after-shave, a totally rich and masculine scent she'd never smelled before. Once, while they stood that way, she heard him swallow.

Then, to her relief the torture was over. The photographer went off to get the flower girl and ring bearer, and Winnie drifted out to the vestibule, trying unsuccessfully to put Joseph Duggan from her mind. But during the relatively short time between then and when they were hustled into hiding so the guests could convene, he remained in her mind's eye, whether within view or not.

The next time they met, the church was filled, the organ was rumbling overhead, and the vestibule was silent of even the most secret whispers. She was vividly aware of how intimately he had pulled her against himself only a few minutes earlier and found it extremely difficult to meet his eyes. She held back, waiting until the last possible moment to join him and take his arm. Finally he came across to her and silently reached for her elbow, a sober expression robbing his eyes of their customary glint.

The organ belted out the opening strains of Lohengrin , and he urged her into line behind the lead couples. She felt herself acquiescing with a stiffness that had somehow overcome her since the picture-taking episode. But when he released her elbow and found her hand, then tucked it securely into the folded warmth of his black sleeve, she knew a forbidden delight at the warmth radiating from inside the crisp gabardine.

The flower girl and ring bearer stepped onto the white runner, and she felt Joseph cover her fingers on his arm, then squeeze them as he whispered, "I'm sorry, Winnie. I had no right."

If only he hadn't said that! If only he'd left things as they were! If only she could have walked up the aisle upon his arm with hostility simmering in her veins, everything might have been all right. But instead he had to go and apologize, and make her look up into his unsmiling brown eyes and see how genuinely he meant the apology. And it was at that precise moment it happened. Something fine and compelling and all-encompassing, a certainty that this day was destined to change them both in ways neither wanted nor welcomed.

Yet they were drawn to this place and time by forces beyond their control, with the organ playing a wedding march, and themselves clothed and coiffed in their regal best, stepping onto a white-lined center aisle, each of them trembling just a little and knowing beyond all certainty they should not be.